A JACKASS IN JAVA: DAY TWENTY FOUR (10JUN2013)

     I feel worse from the Sprite than the arak. Miraculously, I don’t have a hangover, but I feel a bit dehydrated. I roll out of bed at around 0900. So far for the early morning surf check. Last night was a sacrifice to the vacation gods, for a few nights of drinking over a month long trip is acceptable. I pull open the curtains and see Edo and Randy sitting in the kitchen, talking. When I step outside, Edo says, “Sorry, Matt. Did we disturb you?”

     “No,” I say. “I’m fine.” My scruffiness is at the worst that it’s ever been. I rarely get to grow everything out. My bedhead and bedbeard is terrible. It’s already bad enough when everything is in place. I look like shit. “Plenty of arak,” I say.

     Edo has a concerned look on his face. “No good, yah?”

     “No. It’s good! No hangover!”

     Randy says that Machines is the call this afternoon because of the low tide. He says we’ll leave in about an hour. I hydrate the best I can, polish off an oatmeal, and start prepping my gear. Grant stops by about a half an hour later, asking if I want to grab something to eat. I tell him that I’ll just eat at the warung at Machines when I get there. 

The Ride:

     Reese, Grant, and Ana are supposed to meet us there later. Randy and I head out ahead of them because he suggests we grab some food to go. It’s the only time that we both have ridden out together to check out Machines. First we stop at a little shop on the side of the road to grab some gas. It’s like this over here. There are so many side roads and villages that little shops, or the front of people’s homes, have liter bottles filled with gasoline. One liter is only 5000 IR. We both fill up, ride to a restaurant overlooking the harbor for a couple meals to go, and then we head out. 

     I’m surprised that Randy is taking it slow on this ride. Usually he bones out, and I’m way behind, struggling to keep up. I reflect on the way this trip had started and the things that I wanted to get off of my chest and say to him, and part of me is glad that I didn’t because it would have severed our relationship completely. I reflect hard and do some deep contemplation on this ride. Through the turns under the canopy of trees and around the bends, avoiding the chickens that keep crossing the road, I switch to a softer focus, seeing more of my surroundings instead of just the road, ten feet in front of me. The demons begin to breathe. I think about my childhood in Maui, my uncle and my brother both one and the same. If it wasn’t my uncle treating me like shit, it was my brother coming home to visit from college to “check on my progress.” It was either a beating with the boxing gloves, a cold piece of chicken straight from the refrigerator waiting for me on my dinner plate, or the scoldings of why I didn’t do a good job cleaning my grandpa’s six bedroom house (all by myself). I put both of those guys in the same boat, and for some reason my eyes start welling up, and then tears begin pouring out profusely from under my sunglasses, running down my face until I taste their salt. My brother and uncle in my high school days—prison guards. Then I start thinking about my deadbeat dad. How can you have a son and not give a shit about what’s going on in his life? All the men in my family have had a negative influence on me, save for my grandfather. I wonder why I’m crying. It isn’t for the Donny Duckbutter of today. The tears are for that scrawny, teenage kid, living in a prison for four years, every day walking on eggshells. He’s misdirected, joins the wrong crowd and stays out late because he’d rather be anywhere else but home. Uncles can have heart to heart talks, right? Brothers too, even grandfathers, but . . . well that’s not the way his family is. They’re stern and cold, and if you fuck up, you get the silent treatment. “Be like your brother,” my grandpa used to say. The kid, he doesn’t know what he wants to be in life. He knows he’s a shitty waterman, can’t spearfish worth shit, and that he’s not interested in being the one to take over in raising the family’s cattle. I see that scrawny kid sitting in his bedroom, scared to walk outside the door and climb those stairs. He’s wondering if he’s done everything he’s supposed to have done to ensure he can show his face at the dinner table without being ridiculed. He’s telling himself that things aren’t really that bad and that this is normal. After all, cleaning the house, watering the plants, pulling weeds, scooping the dog shit, going to the pasture every day after school and in the mornings and afternoons on the weekends isn’t much pressure for a teenage kid. My uncle had accused me of using my grandparents for their money, that I was living there “rent free.” “Why don’t you live with your mom?” he used to say. That kid in his room with the door shut, he’s wondering if he did all of his chores and if he did them right. He thinks he did, but he knows that the guards upstairs will still have something up their sleeves. “No graduation party, you don’t deserve it,” or “3.5 GPA? That doesn’t mean shit. Try to do that when you get to college.”

     Seeing that kid, I want to hug him and tell him that I understand what he’s going through. Unfortunately, I don’t know what else to say to him. I want to tell him that everything will be all right, but it’s a lie. There will be repercussions, and he’ll have some emotional baggage that will resurface even when he’s a grown ass man. And even though he doesn’t know it yet, he’ll adapt the traits of the monsters around him. In the future, he’ll try to reinvent himself, but I don’t know if he has what it takes to pull it off.

#

Machines:

     Randy and I pull up to a different part of the beach away from the Warung. It’s only about fifty yards away. The left isn’t barreling yet, but it’s good for some turns. The tide still needs to go down. The right-hand slab, it’s working. Since the swell’s going out, it’s a little manageable. Some guys are sitting on it. It’s clamping down, but some of the waves open up. A French kid that’s been here for a while gets a clean barrel. He kicks out of the remnants of the wave with his chest puffed out in victory.

     While we’re eating, we see Reece, Grant, and Ana pull up by the warung. I try to wave them down, but they don’t see us. They leave ten minutes later.

     After we’ve finished, Randy says, “If you’re not full, now’s a good time to paddle out.”

     “Nah, I’ll wait for you,” I say. After this trip I’ve learned that I don’t feel comfortable relying on Randy for anything. Not anymore. Actually, I hope that after this trip I’ll never have to ask him for another favor again, but today, to surf Machines, I have to rely on him. I need him today. He knows this wave. I don’t. I’ll have to put on my little brother hat for this one.

Trials:

     I know he wants to surf the right, but he’s surfing the left because he wants to help me get into waves. I know this; I can tell this, and I appreciate this.

     The left isn’t barreling consistently yet, but with the tide going out and the reef becoming more and more exposed, I know that it is only a matter of time.

     “Right here,” says Randy. He points to a dead tree branch on the big, cliffy rock overlooking the left. “And there. The two story shack on the beach.” I look over, trying to stay in place. He holds his arm out, angling it towards the beach. “Go,” he says. “Paddle this way.”

     Let me be honest here. . . You may be reading this, thinking: Matt, what are you afraid of? Well, I’ll tell you what. There’s this saying for writers that you write like those who you read. As a surfer, you’re a reflection of the waves you surf. Sure, El Porto in the winter has big, beach-break waves. Most closeout, but I’ve seen guys get barreled. It’s pretty challenging. Huntington can barrel too. I’ve surfed Huntington, and like Porto, I haven’t been barreled there, but I’ve been pinched pretty bad. I turn. I like turns. I do a lot of turns. Trestles and Manhattan Beach. I’m a surfer who likes long lefts, carving from top to bottom, and . . . that’s the way that I surf. Now let’s look at Machines. The right is a slab with jagged reef. I heard that a very famous pro surfer surfed here and sustained the worst injury he’s had in five years. The left. Call me a pussy, but it’s scary too. The top of the wave foam balls, reforms, and barrels at the middle of the wave all the way into the channel, mind you over shallow reef. If you wipe out, you’re in the impact zone in shallow water; you don’t want to wipeout. The shoulder is where my brother has positioned me, the “easy” part of the wave.

     “Go,” is what he had said. It’s like getting jumped into a gang. You know you’re gonna get your ass kicked, taking on three to five cholos, but you accept this as you step into the circle. It’s a beating that you’re committed to taking, and even though my heart’s in my throat, I’m kicking and paddling like J.O.B.

     This wave, a barrel, fuck . . . it’s so deceiving. It starts off so mooshy on the shoulder, but immediately off of the bottom turn it just stands up. You can’t go straight; you have to pull in. I do. I pull in, seeing that it’s going to shut down, but I do it anyway. The wave is so fast that the next thing I see is the green backdrop of being underwater while my board gets sucked forward into the wave. I struggle to get to the surface; I’m taking too long. Looking at the oncoming wave, I scramble for my leash and pick up the slack as fast as I can, grab my board, and paddle towards the channel.

     “How was that?” says Randy.

     “Kind of fast,” I say. “It shut down.”

     For thirty minutes, it’s just me and my brother. He passes on a lot of waves so I can go. Force fed barrels, gnarly barrels. Fuck, he’s calling me into every one, and it’s cool, I mean, yeah, he really wants me to get barreled, probably even more than I do. I’d probably shit my pants if I had one brewing, but I don’t, and again, I’m paddling like my life depends on it because it does. Pumping down the line, the face is standing up. I’m waiting for it to open. It does. I pull in, and the speed and power is ridiculous. On my front side, it’s like nothing I’ve ever felt before. My natural instinct is to bail. The sensation is too much; my mind is not fast enough to stay in the moment. All I can do is hold my line. Do I have a choice? I don’t. My life is in the vortex of this barrel. Stand and see what happens is all I can do. I get pinched at the end. As I resurface, my head hits my board from underneath it. I reposition myself. The next wave is breaking. I duckdive and get sucked back. My feet hit the reef. It’s sharp. I’m sure I’m cut. Back at the lineup, I check myself and find that I’m okay.

    

Outclassed:

     On the bombs, Randy says, “You want this one?”

     “No, you go.” As if I’d say anything else. The waves on the shoulder are hard enough. Fuck, the outside waves are menacing. This one is a juggernaut, a wall hitting the cliff, jutting out of the sea. It’s heavy. The way the water forms here is nothing like I’ve ever seen in my life. I’ll have nightmares about this wave. Randy takes off. I see him get the drop and dangle both arms down in front of him in his relaxed style. From behind the wave, he disappears until he kicks out all the way on the inside.

     An Aussie guy who was living next door to me paddles out. He’s now staying at a guesthouse close to Machines. He too, from the same spot as Randy; he paddles in on a monster and gets an instant barrel. Fuck. What balls. I have no balls. These guys have balls. Fuckin’ A. It’s just . . . it’s heavy.

     A French guy comes out too. He’s super cool. He takes off with a GoPro clenched between his teeth. He tells us that he’s sponsored by GoPro. “I go to Surfer Poll in Oahu,” he says. “Kelly Slater gave me my GoPro.”

     Another old, tatted Aussie with leathery skin shares a cigarette in the lineup with the French guy. Unreal.

     Even though the lineup has gotten thicker, Randy is still calling me into waves. Fuck . . . I’m just so . . . FRUSTRATED. I paddle in with all of my might. I pull into the wave, leaning towards the face, trying to get shacked, but not all of the waves open up.

     On my next one, Randy’s on the inside watching me. The wave opens up on my bottom turn, but I’m going too fucking fast. I stick my hand into the wave, trying to slow myself down. The barrel is behind me. I miss it. “Fuck!” I say.

     “That was a good one though,” says Randy. “I bet you want another one after that. You just gotta get your barrel technique down.”

     Exactly. What he said: get your barrel technique down. He’s so right, but . . . I have no barrel technique. I’ve never been barreled before, so I’ve never had one. I’ve had a barrel technique in my brain, but the image in my brain is nowhere to be found. After all of the surf videos I’ve seen, this is one of the hardest lessons of my life. IT IS NOT EASY. For sure not this wave. For an introductory barrel, this is like going from zero to a hundred-miles per hour, like going from elementary school straight to college, like going from slopey Trestles to a barrel machine. The guys I’m in the water with, they’re just plain GOOD. They know barrels. I don’t. But he’s also right about another thing. I do want another one.

     From the shore, I see more people watching now. I’ve sat there with everyone before, and . . . the guys watching are so judgmental, criticizing the guys who aren’t getting barreled. I never want to judge anyone’s surfing anymore, not after this experience. Right now, I know I’m the guy in the water who doesn’t belong.

     Reece paddles up to me and says, “Hey. When we showed up, I asked, ‘Who’s out here?’ They guys said, ‘One Hawaiian guy and a nervous looking Asian guy.’ I said, ‘I think I know the guys that you’re talking about.’”

     Fucking Reece. Mr. Blunt. Now I’m just mad. My energy is thrown off. It’s more crowded. Even though Reece and Grant are my buds, it’s less waves for me. With the tide draining out even lower, the waves get faster and faster. I paddle into a wave and my nose purls. I resurface, unscathed. I go again. Purl again. Beatings. Fucking beatings, but I’m still not cut. I don’t purl on my next attempts. I’m in the vortex again in one, but I just can’t make it out. Too much power, too unstable, too much inexperience. I think about going home with the story about how I didn’t get barreled. “Almost barreled” is the same as not getting barreled. I’m dreading how everyone will ask.

     “Did you get barreled?” says Reece.

     With a stern face I say, “No.”

     “Try harder,” he says.

     I’m forcing it, looking for the opening, stalling, and I’m not in there. The waves are so fast now that I can’t even pull off my bottom turn, so I have to straighten out into the rocks.

     I’m sorry. I’m sorry, Rick, Klaude, Francis, Al, Whiffle Boy. Trust me, I want to get barreled; I wanted to get barreled on this trip, but this wave. If you guys were here, you’d understand. At home, I’d like to think I’ve had days when I tested my mettle, when I had paddled out when only a few guys wanted to, but I’m outclassed here. I’m not ready. I’m just not ready. All I can say is that I tried.

#

     Randy paddles in, so that’s my cue. I’m only one more beating away from being on the sand. My last ride is insignificant. It just wasn’t meant to be. On the shore, I check myself again. No cuts, no bruises, and same goes for my board. The appreciation I have for my life is refreshed. I made it out in one piece.

     After today, my surfing ego is officially dead. I thought Bali was heavy, but this wave surpasses anything I’ve ever encountered in the water. No ego. I said it before, but this time I’m serious. From now on, if anyone tries to praise my surfing or anything I do on a wave, I’ll say thanks, but deep down inside I know the truth. I was scared shitless in barreling reef break, but I somehow managed to push myself over the ledge. I’ll let you guys be the ones to come here and conquer this wave. I don’t have anything to prove anymore. One day it will happen, or maybe it won’t; I don’t care. The pressure and anxiety that I’ve put myself under has left me empty. I’ve surfed this spot three times and that’s three times enough. Bring me back to a long rippable wave. That’s what I surf, and that’s the kind of surfer I am. I’m not a hellman, and I can live with that.

A JACKASS IN JAVA: DAY TWENTY THREE (09JUN2013)

How Badly?:

     How badly do I want to eat? It’s 0919. The rain had started sometime around 0200 and hasn’t stopped since. Romantic if you had a lover with you, a reason to stay indoors all day, but that’s not the case here. So how badly? How badly do I want to venture out of this motherfucker? Gray sky for as far as I can see. Barred windows from the back of my room expose an untended field of vegetables, green grass, and a satellite dish. I’m starving. I wish I knew that the wet season was gonna be lingering around. How badly? The rain is falling straight down, no angle, no wind. Eternal shower, puddles outside my door, consistent sound of splashing. How badly do I want to surf? I thought pretty badly, but now I know what those groms were thinking the other day when I was the only one out in the lineup. 

Not that bad I guess, but I NEED TO FUCKING EAT!!! I’m out of milk, tired of oatmeal; I need solid nourishment in my tummy. Al left me a handful of mints. How badly? Am I willing to say fuck it? I can just throw on my board shorts and rash guard, head to the Rajawali for internet and food. I’ll be drenched by the time I arrive, but I’ll be in my surf clothes anyway. How badly do I want hot steaming food? It’s there, I know it is. Even though the food there sucks, that hotel is a convenience right now. Anything, anything. I don’t know how much weight I’ve dropped since I’ve been here, but my thirty twos are starting to sag. I just want to fucking eat. It should be sunny out and hot, but it’s so gloomy that it could easily be dusk right now. The streets are silent: no motoring mopeds, kids on bicycles, nor bells from the streetcarts. My stomach is turning in on itself. I already took a shit. MY TANK IS ON “E!” Prisoner of the rain in my room. I can only play Angry Birds so much. Looking outside my window, thinking, How badly?

#

     It’s one thing to already be in the water when it starts raining, but since I’m not, surf is out of the question. I doubt that anyone has even looked at it right now with this entire downpour.

     I put my laptop in my backpack, throw on some boardshorts and a dirty tee shirt, and leave the protection of my room to brace myself for the rain. The Rajawali Hotel is only minutes away, but I know I won’t last.

     Cold drops pelt me as I pull the throttle. The street is empty. Puddles cover potholes as I race past. I use my sunglasses to protect my eyes from the stinging drops, but my lenses get foggy. More throttle, sheets of rain like needles, squinting just enough so I can see. I pull up to the hotel parking soaked. Randy is sitting at a table with an Aussie and Dreadlock Eddie. I turn off the moped and say, “I’m fucking over it. Fuck this place.”

     I find salvation through breakfast. Coffee with milk and sugar is only 2000 IR, barely over twenty cents. Just think about it. Eight cups of coffee here is the same price as a one Starbucks coffee. I email a couple of people and see what’s going on in the NBA. Looks like the Spurs took game one against the Heat. I try to watch the highlights, but the wifi stream here is so slow that I’m forced to give up. I catch Bri when she gets off of work, and we get to Vox for a little while before I leave.

     It’s about 1300, and the rain has stopped. I do a quick surf check at the harbor. Supri is selling the little two-foot waves, making all of the sections and still doing wrap-around cutbacks on such small faces. But the tide is going out, which will make the surf much smaller too. There has been so much rain that even the water here is turning brown.

     Choco Point is worse, but what catches my attention isn’t the surf, it’s the actual river mouth. I’m standing, watching a long tree branch cruise by right in front of me, heading straight for the ocean. The water is flowing so fast. Plastic bottles and trash is moving along with it faster than I can run. I love this wave when it’s working, but seeing how much rubbish is going directly into it makes me want to quite this break all together. 

     Back at the compound, Randy is out on his balcony. He looks down at me as I pull up.

     “It’s terrible,” I say. “Everything. The harbor and Chocos.”

     “Let’s go to S___,” he says. “I think that’s the call for today.”

     S___ is that A-frame peak next to that right-hand wedge where I discovered that tree branch that looks like a dick. I’m not sure if I’m up to it. After today’s rain, I’m kind of over everything. I tell him that I’m going to stay local instead and just hope that either the Harbor or Choco Point will be doing its thing later.

     I nap until about 1500 and head to Chocos, but it’s flat. Over the last three days, Chocos has not been doing it at all. A German who always surfs with Mando is here. He tells me his name is Fabio. “Where’s Mando?” I ask.

     “Oh, he hit his head on his board. Stitches.” Fabio explains the story further. He says at the harbor that someone was in his way on a wave, so he had to ditch his board. “He hit his head on the nose,” he says. Nothing against Germans, but one of the Luftwaffe guys got stitches in his head too for hitting his board.

     From here I go to the Harbor. It’s even smaller. Fishermen walk along the shore while the tide’s drained out with their fishing nets. I give an exasperated sigh as I stare out from my bike. This will only be the second time that I haven’t surfed at all during this whole trip.

     In my room, I’m bored. Everyone else went to S___ except for me. I should’ve gone I guess, but the rain put me in a bad mood. I’ve been counting down the days. I don’t want to risk it, just want to get home in one piece, surf easy, and stay local if I can.

     Since everyone else is gone, it makes no sense to hang around and wait for people to get back. I shower and head out for an early dinner. I go to Padangs. I’m the only one here. This small restaurant is literally a shack with four plastic tables and chairs. Flies pester you as you eat, and geckos crawl along the wall. Despite this place’s surroundings, the food here is outstanding. I’m almost done with my food, and it’s so delicious that I contemplate on eating seconds, that’s until something unexpectedly crunches while I’m eating: a fuckin’ small rock in my rice. Unfortunately in Java, these little mishaps are common. There’s nothing like enjoying a good meal, chewing your food into mulch, and then, out of nowhere, you get that mysterious crunch. You feel the rock disintegrate. It makes no sense to spit everything out, so you stubbornly chew until the rock’s particles get grinded down to dirt. Fuckin’ nasty. Lucky for me, I catch the rock before I break it, so I set it on the rim of my plate. Then, my teeth feel something large and hard. I spit it out, and it clanks as it lands. It’s a big fucking rock in my rice. I’m over it.

     At the Indomaret I buy myself a beer. Yup, it looks like a solo night of drinking. I buy a big bottle of Anker and head back to my room. Randy’s washing his bike out front. “How was it?” I ask.

     “It was big,” he says. “Probably the biggest that I surfed that spot, easily head high. Lots of closeouts too on the outside. Guys were getting caught on the inside. Even I had to hold onto my board because I was getting sucked down deep. It was me and Grant, and then Reese, Edo, Doc, and your German friend showed up.”

     “Cool,” I say. Cool . . . yeah. Fuck, I should have gone. I open up my laptop and start watching surf porn. Fuck it. It’s an easy night just chillin’. Gonna watch a movie, write, go to bed early, and—.

     A knock at the door startles me. I hear voices. I open it and find Grant and Reece there. I’m speechless, holding my bottle.

     “Ahhh, you’re already drinking,” says Reece. “Come on, you’re coming to dinner with us.”

     “But I already ate.”

     “Come one, Matt. We already bought some arak,” says Grant.

     “Yeah,” says Reece. “If you already ate, just come out and have a beer. We’re at the restaurant around the corner.”

     “Okay, I’ll meet you guys there.”

     I’m rejuvenated with life. It’s nice to be around other people, especially when you’re invited, and I’m not even being used for sex either. I quickly change and head out the door.

     I accept that Richard the asshole will probably be there, but fuck it. I’d rather be chillin’ out with everyone than be a hermit in my room. When I show up, I see that we have a full table sitting on the floor. Gayun is here with some chick, two other Indonesian dudes who are staying at Compound One, Ana, Grant, Sarah (Bin Tang’s chick) and Reece. I take a seat next to Reece. “Sorry, mate,” he says. “Rick is sittin’ there.”

     I get up and sit at the end of the table. Fuck. Richard the asshole is here. Well, whatever. I’ll put up with him. Another Indonesian dude with a shaved head sits down next to Reece. He’s Rick, not Richard.

     Sitting at the table drinking, I learn more about the people around me. Sarah tells us that she was born in Zimbabwe and still has family there. She says she does social work in Jogja, and since sex education isn’t taught in Indonesia, she tells us about the crazy email she gets from Indonesian women. “I get this one all the time. ‘Can I get pregnant from fingering?’ Also, a woman told me that she’s been letting a guy touch her breasts because he told her it would make them bigger.”

     Fuckin’ A, this gives me a good laugh, but at the same time, Reese and I agree that this is fucked up. I don’t understand why something like sex ed would be illegal.

     Rick and I formally introduce ourselves to each other. He has a shirt that reads: Poke Smot. I tell him that that’s a cool shirt, and it’s the only thing I’ve seen here that resembles weed in any kind of way. He tells us that he lives in New Zealand now.

     After beer and dinner, we all head to Indomaret to grab some supplies for the arak (Indo rice wine) that’s back at Compound One. 

     Now we’re at the large, emperor’s table at their compound. One of the other Indo dudes offers me one of his beers. He tells me his name is Kirby. The other Indo dude introduces himself as Josh. All three Indo guys randomly ended up booking at the compound just for a couple of nights. Josh and Kirby live in Jakarta.

     “Kirby,” I say, “what do you do in Jakarta?”

     “He’s the coffee king,” says Josh.

     Kirby shakes his head and smiles. “I do trading with Australia,” he says.

     “Oh, like logistics?”

     He explains the whole process, how he bids, distributes coffee to vendors, and how he trades with the Australians.

     “So how’s Jakarta?” I say. “I mean, like, what do you guys do for fun?”

     “Man,” he says. “During the day time, it’s crowded. But,” he smiles, “I live in the night.”

     “Yeah, yeah, cool, man. I like that. I know what you’re talking about.”

     He says, “In Jakarta, man,” he rolls his eyes back,” you can have anything you want. You can eat sushi on top of a naked woman at four in the morning. All you need is the money. You can go to clubs that stay open for three days straight. All you need is the money.”

     I’m leaning in, buzzed and drawn into his conversation. “You see,” I say. “That’s interesting because, all I know about Jakarta is that it’s really Muslim, so I thought it would be like . . . super strict you know. Like drug laws, right? I mean, my flight said it on the way over here. The penalty is death!”

     Kirby shakes his head again and pulls out a small, Ziploc bag. He pulls out some weed and starts picking out the seeds. “You see this, man? You can get this anywhere in Jakarta.”

     This guy ain’t bullshitting. “How did you travel with that?” I say.

     “You see . . . if it’s small amount. No big deal. They don’t care. Only if you have a lot, then you have problem.”

     “Wow, so it’s just like the states.”

     Kirby packs a bowl, but Edo walks over and brings Gayun to the side. We’re being too loud. Tina walks over and says that it’s ten o’clock—quiet hours. “You can stay,” she says, “but you guys have to be quiet.”

     “That’s not gonna happen,” says Reece.

     “And you can’t go to Compound Two,” she says.

     After a minute of deliberating, we all decide to walk towards Choco Road and drink at the skatepark.

Anywhere in the World:

     I’ve really taken to these three Indo guys: Josh, Kirby, and Rick. They’re so worldly, originally from Indonesia but still well traveled and cultured. I feel like a stupid American, believing the images on TV that the Muslim capital of the world is filled with people wrapped from head to toe, stern faces that don’t smile and see every Western person as an infidel.

     “You can’t see the stars like this in Jakarta,” says Rick. We both look up.

     “Yeah . . . you’re right,” I say. Back home in El Segundo, the sky is pink from the airport lights. In Los Angeles, the sky isn’t dark enough to see this much. In the midst of frogs croaking on a dark road, the only light is from two moped headlights coming towards us. “Hello!” says the invisible person behind the light. “Hello!” I say back. This is the most I’ve walked since I was at Jakarta Airport.

     We stop at a different park before the skatepark. It’s well lit with benches. Kirby whips out his small speakers and starts playing music off of his phone. I’ve never heard the artists before, but it’s Indonesian Pop. We drink more.

     Kirby passes some stuff around for everyone to smoke, and then he comes up to me and says, “Even if you don’t know Indonesian. Even if you go to Jakarta, you don’t need to speak. They speak money. That’s all that matters.”

     Josh and Rick tell shit jokes. Ana says, “I’m so stoned.”

     I look behind us every time I hear an engine or see a light. My Western senses tell me to watch out for the police, but there are none. We’re out in public, in the middle of nowhere getting drunk, some high, and we don’t have to fear about breaking the law. I realize how unique this experience is. The last time I’ve chilled like this was in my hometown of Napili back on Maui, when we’d head to the beach to just chill and do whatever, all under a similar remoteness. I feel like I’m back in high school at a neighborhood hang out. The ratio is right: three girls, eight guys. The weather. The weather is so different. It’s so warm out here in the middle of the night in an empty park, drinking, wearing boardshorts and flip flops.

     I walk up to Grant and say, “You know, this is really cool, man. I mean . . . I’m in fuckin’ Java, dude!” I extend my arms to our surroundings. “Look at this place.”

     “Yeah,” says Grant. “I know what you mean. Just the other day I was wondering what me mates back home were probably looking at at that moment, and then I looked up. It was just me, on a rug, in an empty shack, and I thought . . . cool. I’m glad I’m not home.” He looks around us. “I mean, we’re in the middle of nowhere.”

     Gayun, young college kid and security for Compound One, comes over and asks if I’ve drunken any arak. I hold up my empty beer can and say, “I didn’t bring a cup. I can pour it in this I guess.”

     “Shit,” says Grant. “Gayun can make your can into a cup.” He looks at Gayun. “Gayun, you can make that into a cup?” He pulls out a Leatherman.

     Gayun’s eyes widen. He takes the Leatherman and holds it like a new toy, touching all the folded parts compacted into the metal tool. I have three of them back home, but I try to look amazed too so I don’t look like a dick. “Yes,” says Gayun. “I can make.”

     Gayun squats down and uses the Leatherman to cut open the can. He takes to the work with such seriousness, even ignoring his lady friend, just to turn my can into a cup. He’s intense, as if something is being wagered over or as if it was a dare.

     “Damn, I feel kind of bad,” I tell Grant. “I didn’t mean to make him go through all of this trouble.” Gayun use the pliers on the Leatherman to bend down all of the sharp edges, making the sipping rim dull.

     “Don’t worry, mate,” says Grant. “I think he’s done this before.”

#

     It’s two hours later. The batteries have run out of juice on Kirby’s speakers. “Denny’s,” I say. “I miss Denny’s. That would be so perfect right now.”

     “Shit, I loved Denny’s when I was in the states,” says Reece.

     When the subject turns to food, Kirby amps everyone up, saying that the market is still open, that we can order so much food right now that we’d have a buffet. “All you would have to do is like this,” he says, while he picks from an imaginary buffet line, stuffing an empty handful in his mouth. We all end up chipping in and giving money to Gayun. He takes off and comes back a half an hour later with chips, tahu (tofu), and some fried dessert dish that we dip in granulated sugar. While squatting and eating, Reece complains about how uncomfortable he is. “I don’t know how you guys do it,” he says.

     This is where my Filipino roots kick in. For me, this is perfectly comfortable. Then all the other whites try: Ana, Sarah, and Grant. They can’t do it either.

     “Must be genetics,” says Reece. “The darker you are, the easier it is.”

     “That’s racist,” says Rick. We all laugh.

     “But look,” says Reece. “Matt can do it, and I doubt he sits like that when he’s in California, do ya, Matt?”

     “Nope,” I say.

#

     Gayun pulls me to the side and says, “Where is your brother?”

     “Oh. He’s sleeping.”

     “But do you like, eat with him, go and . . . hang out with him?”

     Fuck, I’m thinking. Gayun is a sharp kid. Why am I sensing a guilt trip? “I mean,” I begin, “we went out to eat when I first got here . . . we surfed a little. . .”

     “I mean,” he says. “If you want to hang out, I know where to hang out. If you want to go somewhere to eat. I can show you, so . . . I am your friend. All you have to do is ask.”

#

2:00 AM

     Sarah, Ana, Reece, and Kirby have called it a night. Rick, Grant, Josh and I are watching Gayun interact with his chick. They are speaking Indonesian, so I have no clue what’s going on. Rick translates for us. “They met on Facebook,” he says. “She is from Jakarta. She took a bus for ten hours to see Gayun. She’s only here for two days. She leaves tomorrow, and Gayun is trying to get her to stay longer.”

     Fuck. Facebook is like the motherfuckin’ Match.com of Indonesia I guess.

     “There’s gotta be a better opportunity for Gayun,” says Grant. “We’ve gotta get him out of this place. Boy’s got potential. He needs to make some real money.”

     We watch the girl tickle Gayun, and we hear them laugh into the early morning, before we head back to our respective compounds.

     “Josh,” I say. “When are you guys leaving?”

     “In the morning,” he says.

     “Are you going to surf before you leave?” I ask.

     “Yeah, maybe. I think we’ll have a look.”

     “Okay. Maybe I’ll see you there.”

     I say bye to Josh and Richard. What cool dudes. I’m grateful to have met and hung out with them. If anything, they showed me that people on this side of the globe aren’t much different. I walk back to my room where Reece and Grant had swooped me up many hours ago. I close my eyes and further ingrain the image in my head of all of us hanging out under the park lights. Such a random group of people from all over, sharing laughs and spreading good energy. Reece and Grant will be leaving right after me, Ana a couple days before. It is special, this trip and the people. Even though the arak has me a couple of breaths away from sleep, it makes me sad to think that I might never see them again.